


Oh How the Ghost of You Clings

by ArwaMachine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Grieving John Watson, Kissing, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, a smattering of fluff, references to suicide (Sherlock's)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwaMachine/pseuds/ArwaMachine
Summary: Sherlock has been dead for over a year, and John fully intends to spend January 29th—the anniversary of the day he and Sherlock met—laying low and trying not to cry. The universe, it would appear, has a somewhat different plan for John. As a mounting series of consequences sends John across the city to all the spots he and Sherlock haunted that first day they knew each other, John begins to suspect that the universe is not being very lazy at all.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 164
Kudos: 188
Collections: Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	1. Chapter 1

It was January twenty-ninth, 2013, and John Watson was seated on a bench outside of Barts Hospital, trying very hard not to cry.

The first year after Sherlock died, John could barely even think about the twenty-ninth, let alone commemorate the date in any significant manner. He had hoped the day would come and go like all the others had since Sherlock’s death—empty and precarious, with little thoughts of Sherlock sending him into unpredictable tailspins. It was miserable, but at least the misery was consistent. Instead, he had spent the day in such a funk that the other doctors at the surgery kindly suggested to him that he take the rest of the day off. _For you,_ they had said, but the subtext was clear: _for your patients, who you are in no fit condition to see._ He had taken them up on the offer and spent the remainder of the day with a bottle of whiskey, which—in retrospect—had been poor company.

This year, John figured he had a better handle on the day. It had been over a year since Sherlock died, after all, and the misery had a less acute edge to it, a dull knife that couldn’t quite cut you unless you pressed _very_ hard. John did his best not to press particularly hard. Still, he took the day off from the surgery and purposefully silenced his mobile. He hadn’t meant to do anything in particular except stare at a wall and do his best not to get through the whole of his whiskey, but instead he found himself downtown. Sitting on a bench outside of Barts Hospital. Staring directly across the street at the pavement that caught Sherlock’s fall. Trying very, very hard not to cry.

It was odd, he thought as he stared at the building and blinked back tears, that he was mentally celebrating the anniversary of first meeting a man who—at face value—was never anything more than a mate to him. They were close, certainly. Very close. And although they had been through quite a lot together in the twenty-two months they had known each other, it was _still_ only twenty-two months. John had mates die in Afghanistan who he knew for much longer and with whom he had been through just as much, and he couldn’t tell you the date he first met them if you put a gun to his head.

“Well,” a voice said beside him, “I wasn’t exactly an ordinary person, now was I?”

John pinched his eyes shut. Right.

The day was bright but chilly, the November air turning towards winter. John zipped his jacket to his chin and tried to ignore the cold of the bench pressing into his legs. The street was busy—cars whizzing along the road, busting passers-by on the pavement. There was some busker somewhere, the kind with an electric fiddle, playing a rendition of _These Foolish Things._ John wasn’t fully sure where they were positioned, but the notes rang through the air as if somehow coming from everywhere.

_A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces_

_An airline ticket to romantic places_

_And still my heart has wings..._

John opened his eyes. Barts still stood in front of him, towering large and white against the London cityscape. Although over a year had passed, John still knew down to the meter the exact spot where Sherlock hit the pavement. Sherlock’s blood had long since been washed away by time and the elements, so thoroughly erased that not even a bloodhound would know that he was once there, but John still thought he could see traces of red sometimes. At the moment, however, a street preacher—some evangelical nutter—had set up shop just at the spot of Sherlock’s death. He had an overflowing beard and a tattered Bible in hand and periodically yelled at passers-by about the merits of prayer. _Waiting for a miracle,_ his well-worn vest read, and John seriously considered standing up and paying him fifty quid just to _move_ , just to step one meter to the left or right. He hated that the man was standing on the spot where Sherlock died, and he did not find himself particularly keen on miracles at the moment.

However, John wasn’t here to think about the day Sherlock died. No, he was here—apparently—to think about the day they met.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

John smiled, and it hurt. “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

“I’ve already told you that,” came the voice beside him. “Boring.”

“I know,” John said. “I just like to hear you explain it all out. All your little deductions, all in a row.”

“It’s less impressive once it’s all spelled out,” the voice said. “It spoils the magic.”

“Not to me,” John said. “I always found it extraordinary.”

“Well,” the voice was smiling, “you were always exceedingly easy to impress.”

John smiled again. It still hurt.

This just sort of happened from time to time. John started it as a therapeutic technique that Ella suggested, picturing Sherlock sitting right in front of him so he could say all the things that he’d wanted to say to him in life but never got the chance. It had taken a while for John to get the hang of it, but as it turned out he had quite a bit he’d wanted to say to Sherlock. He said it all and then some, but it didn’t exactly make him feel any better, and at the end of the exercise it turned out that Sherlock was a bit reluctant to leave. So Sherlock came and went, just as he did when he was alive, popping into John’s consciousness whenever he pleased and in complete disregard for convenience.

“ _Look up to the heavens,_ ” the street-preacher shouted to nobody in particular. “ _Look up to the heavens and rejoice._ ”

“I don’t suppose,” John said, “you’ve managed to find a way to stop being dead?”

“I’m afraid not, John,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. He swallowed. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Yes it did,” Sherlock said.

And John nodded again, because of course Sherlock was right. It had hurt like hell.

John might’ve gone inside Barts. On the auspices of paying Molly a visit or saying hello to Mike, he could have managed to find his way into the lab, that dim, cluttered room where he first saw the face of the man who managed to change the whole of his life in a single day. Still, he wasn’t sure what he would have done once he was actually inside, and the thought of standing in the middle of the lab at Barts, staring at a space that Sherlock would never occupy again, seemed heartbreaking. Hell, sitting outside on this bench was heartbreaking enough.

_l play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?_

“Why were those the facts you chose to share with me?” John asked. “Playing the violin and not talking for days on end? Do you really think that’s the worst about you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Seemed like information you ought to know. So you could make an informed decision about becoming flatmates.”

“Not exactly the worst bits about living with you, though,” John said. “What about, _I’ll store body parts next to the jam?_ Or what about, _I’ll get blood all over the flat after an experiment wherein I harpoon a pig_? Or what about, _I’ll drug my flatmate’s coffee just for shits and giggles_?”

“I certainly couldn’t predict I would do _all_ of those things,” Sherlock said. “I thought it was best that I stick to the most probable irritating qualities.”

“They’re not even that irritating,” John said, “the qualities you went with. I liked the violin. It was lovely, even at half-three in the morning.”

As if on cue, the busker’s music seemed to increase in volume.

_You came_

_You saw_

_You conquered me_

“And the not-talking bit?” John continued, doing his best to ignore the violin and what it happened to be doing to his insides at the moment. “For days on end? Not once. You talked constantly, Sherlock. _Constantly_.”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John said. “Well, sometimes. But mostly no.” He risked a glance at Sherlock. In his mind, Sherlock was always wearing one of those posh suits of his, the ones that seemed exceedingly expensive and well-tailored, the ones that John wouldn’t dream of wearing himself. The ones he’d sometimes wondered about seeing crumpled up on his bedroom floor. Today, Sherlock wore his Belstaff as well—it _was_ cold out, after all—with his scarf tucked around his neck and his curls fluttering in the breeze. It looked so normal to see him that for a moment it was hard for John to believe that he wasn’t really there at all.

“It’s silent now that you’re gone,” John said. He turned to face Barts. The street-preacher was taking a break from his sermon, but he was still standing there on the pavement, taking up the space that ought to be reserved for only Sherlock, waiting for a miracle that would never come. “I hate the bloody silence.”

Sherlock turned to consider him. “I know,” he said.

John looked over at Sherlock, and what was most unfair was how John could still picture his bloody eyes, those blue eyes that held an intelligence John could never quite fathom even if he were given lifetimes to do so, that could communicate kindness or violence depending on the way they flickered, that stared lifelessly out at nothing as Sherlock’s broken body lay on the pavement, just a few meters away from where John sat. John’s own eyes, at the moment, burned like hell and it felt as if his throat were closing up. His efforts not to cry on a bench outside of Barts Hospital were about to fail spectacularly.

Erupting in a flurry, as if from out of nowhere, a woman appeared at John’s left. She was cheerful and bubbling and wore a knit cap over unruly hair. She shoved a clipboard into John’s face.

“Care to sign the petition to save the Lauriston building?” she asked.

“ _Christ_ ,” John said, jumping in surprise and nearly knocking the clipboard from her hand. He glanced at Sherlock, who of course was not there. John wiped at his eyes, trying to appear like a man who was not about to break into tears in public.

“They’re set to demolish the building this week,” the girl said, seemingly ignorant of John’s current emotional state. “I’m a volunteer with London’s historical society, and we’re trying to save it. Get it preserved. Too much of our city’s history is being torn down, don’t you think?”

John glanced at the spot on the pavement where Sherlock died. “Yeah,” he said. His voice sounded a bit off. He grabbed at the clipboard. He didn’t particularly care about what happened to old buildings, but he was certainly willing to do whatever it took to get this perky woman out of his miserable face so he could have a nice public cry in peace. His pen hovered just over the list of names on the petition when he noticed an address at the top of the sheet. The address seemed so familiar.

“Wait,” he said, tapping at the paper with the pen. “This is the old building off Brixton Road?”

“You know it?” The woman seemed overjoyed.

John, despite only ever having been to the place once, knew the building intimately. This was the location of his and Sherlock’s first case together, the one with the pink lady. John blinked at the clipboard, hardly believing his eyes. “Um,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been there. Once.”

“It’s a lovely old building, isn’t it?” the girl asked.

“Well…” John wouldn’t exactly have called the place _lovely._ _Decrepit_ might be a better descriptor. _Condemnable_ might be another. From what he remembered of it, knocking the place to the ground might actually be the best course of action for the city. He scrawled out a signature on the petition anyway and handed the clipboard back to the woman. “You know there was a dead body found there, right?” he asked. “Three years ago?” _Exactly_ three years ago, he thought. Three years ago nearly to the day.

“Oh,” the woman said. She tilted her head, thinking. “Well,” she said, “if we went and tore down every building in the city that had a dead body found in it, we wouldn’t have any buildings left, now would we?” With that, she was gone, off to bother other pedestrians with her clipboard and her cause.

“Yeah, John said to nobody in particular. “I suppose that’s true.”

“That’s where we had our first case together,” Sherlock said, reappearing beside him.

“Yeah,” John said. “I remember.” _I remember all the time,_ John thought. _I can’t stop remembering you._

Sherlock was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, lips lifted into a little smile.

“What?” John asked. “You want to go?”

“Could be fun,” Sherlock said.

“It’s an abandoned building,” John said. “And scheduled for demolition, apparently.”

“Like I said.” Sherlock grinned. “Fun.”

John chuckled, shaking his head.

“Besides,” Sherlock said. “I died right there.” He pointed across the street to the spot where the street-preacher was still waving his Bible and waiting for nothing. “A bit morbid to hang around here all afternoon, don’t you think?”

John studied the pavement and supposed that Sherlock—dead as he was—had a point. “Alright,” he said, easing himself off the bench. “Let’s go poke around a condemned building. Seems appropriate for the day, I suppose.” He started off down the pavement, looking for a cab.

Sherlock, of course, followed. He was smiling and nearly _skipping_ , his hands buried in the pockets of his Belstaff. “How very romantic of you, John,” he said.

“Shut up,” said John.

But of course Sherlock never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for checking out this fic! This fic has six chapters, and I will post one new chapter each day from now until the 29th. Follow along if you'd like!
> 
> On a pedantic note, I know that a lot of the events I describe in this fic (e.g., the pink lady case) technically occur on January 30th. Just...shhhhhhh...
> 
> Hearts,
> 
> Arwa


	2. Chapter 2

Time had not treated the Lauriston Gardens building with kindness.

Time, John thought, treated nothing with kindness, so he figured it was all the same in the end.

This bit of town had seen better days, with the red bricks of the buildings fading into brown with age and the stones on the streets tilting into uneven tripping hazards. There was abandoned scaffolding along a few buildings, and more than a few windows were boarded up, promises of restorations that seemed unlikely to ever occur. There weren’t as many cars or pedestrians in this part of town—for good reason, John supposed—and the place had a still and slightly ominous feel to it. The faint rush of traffic could be heard, as well as the din of someone yelling in a nearby building. Someone had a radio playing, and a crackly voice could be heard crooning out the melody to an old song.

_The winds of March that make my heart a dancer_

_A telephone that rings but who's to answer?_

Strictly speaking, John wasn’t supposed to enter the building, it being condemned and all. However, he didn’t quite see the point of taking a cab all the way out to Brixton just to loiter outside. Besides, the door was made of plywood and already broken in half, so John figured to call what he was doing _breaking and entering_ was quite the exaggeration.

Sherlock, grinning beside him, seemed to approve.

There were just as many stairs as John remembered, although he climbed them much easier without the hindrance of a psychosomatic limp. He did his best to refrain from touching the handrail as he ascended the stairs—the thing was nearly black with grime, and he saw more than a few multi-legged creatures crawling about. Without the aid of the floodlights from Scotland Yard’s forensics team, the place was filled with shadows, only serving to accentuate the dismal nature of the building.

“Nice place,” John said.

“Decent spot for a murder,” Sherlock said. “Very atmospheric.”

“Good of criminals to think of the ambiance when they’re committing their crimes,” John said. “Makes for a better overall experience.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Sherlock said with a smile, and John missed him so much he thought he might keel over from it.

There wasn’t a body in the little room off the top of the stairs, of course. There was no pink lady sprawled out across the floor, coat covered in rainwater and fingernails chipped from scratching a name into the wood of the floors. She was long gone now, rotted and buried in some cemetery somewhere, the sensationalism of her death long since faded into obscurity. Still, John remembered exactly where she lay. He remembered how Sherlock crowded around her body, taking in every piece of information about her at lightning speed. He remembered kneeling at Sherlock’s side, utterly confused about everything that was going on but so taken in with the man that he couldn’t be arsed to care.

“You knew everything about her, the pink lady, just from looking at her for two minutes,” John said. “If that.” He shook his head. “It was extraordinary.”

Sherlock kicked around the dirt of the floor, trying his best to seem unfazed by the compliment. Still, John could see him smile slightly, preening from praise even in death.

“It’s what I do, John,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John said, looking about the room. He couldn’t see anything more than a grime-covered room, falling apart at the edges, but he was sure Sherlock would have been able to recite the entire history of the place down to nearly the minute. “It was still extraordinary.”

“I knew everything about you too,” Sherlock said.

“You didn’t know about Harry,” John pointed out.

“I didn’t know Harry was a _woman,_ ” Sherlock said. “All the other bits I knew. I knew about Afghanistan. I knew about your ridiculous limp. I knew about Harry’s drinking, her marriage. I simply overlooked the tiny little fact that Harry happened to be a woman.”

“Right,” John said. “Tiny little fact.”

Sherlock studied John with an expression that John couldn’t quite read, which was a bit unfair given that Sherlock existed entirely in John’s mind. “I knew that you needed me.”

John’s eyes darted to the ground. “I didn’t _need_ you.” He wasn’t particularly sure why he chose to argue with his own subconscious about this fact, but he went along with it anyway.

“You were dying as a civilian,” Sherlock said, “bit by bit. You needed the chase, the adrenaline, the chance to use your skills instead of wasting away in some depressing little bedsit, working at some depressing little surgery. You needed your life to be alive.” He stepped closer, his eyes the brightest thing in the room. “You needed somebody who understood. Somebody who needed the same things.”

John felt his jaw tense. He nodded, eyes still on the floor. Of course Sherlock was right. Only Sherlock could manage to be right even from the bloody grave. John sighed, looking around the room once more, wishing for a dead body. He would have gone back to that day in an instant, the day with the pink lady. He would have given anything in the world to be crouched down on a dirty floor, sniffing at a corpse with Sherlock.

“I needed you too, John,” Sherlock said.

John looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock seemed open, his face—for once—sincere. That burning feeling was back in John’s throat.

“We needed each other,” Sherlock said, “the both of us.”

John nodded. He gestured at the floor, at the space where the dead woman, unfortunately, was not. “I thought you were brilliant,” he said.

“I know,” Sherlock said.

John chuckled. “Of course you know.”

“You said it out loud, remember?” Sherlock said. “You kept saying it. Didn’t exactly take a genius to deduce it. Even _Anderson_ probably knew.” He paused, considering. “Well, maybe not Anderson, now that I think on it. Anderson is exceptionally dense.”

“Anderson thinks you’re still alive,” John said. His voice sounded soft, swallowed by the empty room.

Sherlock’s face was unreadable again. “As I said, Anderson is exceptionally dense.”

“Yeah,” John said. It was the very definition of idiocy, John knew. Dead was dead, and Sherlock Holmes was unquestionably dead. John had seen it himself—he watched Sherlock fall from the roof, arms outstretched, coat fluttering behind him like failed wings. Most importantly, he had watched Sherlock land, heard the sick crunch of his body against the pavement. He had seen Sherlock’s body, broken and bloodied and limp and lifeless, blue eyes staring and vacant, their intelligence unceremoniously snuffed out. He had grasped at Sherlock’s hand and, even though it was still warm, so terribly _warm_ , there hadn’t been a pulse. Sherlock was dead. And yet, John couldn’t help but think that if there was any one man who could find a way to outsmart death, it was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock glanced around the room, his hands in his pockets. “It was a good case,” he said. “One of the better ones, I’d say.”

John nodded, looking entirely at Sherlock. “Yeah,” he said. “It was a very good case.”

“This is where you knew, wasn’t it?” Sherlock asked, that _it’s my business to know things_ look flickering in his eyes. “That I had you? That you’d follow me to the ends of the earth?”

The room was growing a bit blurry, a bit wet. John blinked and nothing changed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice jagged. “This is where I knew.”

He cleared his throat and walked back towards the stairs. He peered over the railing, gazing down the spiral of decrepit, cobwebbed stairs. “And then you left me,” he said. “You left me at a bloody crime scene.” He sighed. “You were always leaving me, Sherlock. I would have followed you to the end, but you always _leave_ —” he turned, glancing back towards Sherlock, but Sherlock was gone.

“Right,” he said. “That’s about right.”

He took one last look at the little room, the room that didn’t contain a crime scene or a body or a Sherlock and hadn’t for three years. The place would be demolished soon, John supposed. Memories toppled to the ground as if they meant nothing. Another part of Sherlock erased forever, as simple as the swing of a wrecking ball.

“Please,” John whispered to the little room. “Please stop being dead.”

The little room said nothing in response. No trace of Sherlock remained. Miracles weren’t real, and no use waiting for.

John gulped at the knives in his throat and headed down the stairs.

The bloody song was still playing when John made it back to the street ( _and still my heart has wings..._ ), and he remembered that it was nearly impossible to get a cab in this area. The sun was starting to tuck itself behind the buildings, preparing for nightfall, and the day had gotten noticeably colder. John dug his hands into his pockets and started walking, hoping to find a willing cab or a nearby Tube station soon.

Just down the road, a scrawny young man was yelling about something or other, a stack of brightly-colored flyers in his hands and no passers-by to give them to. John considered crossing the street just to avoid the man—he had enough of random encounters with enthusiastic strangers for the day—but the man was on him before he had a chance.

“ _Best prices in the city!_ ” the man said, grinning and loud. “ _Family-sized portions! Authentic Italian cuisine!_ ” He shoved a pink flyer into John’s hand and carried on down the street, shouting at nobody.

John studied the garish flyer in his hand. He blinked. He shook his head. “You have absolutely,” he said, “ _got_ to be kidding me.”

Sherlock reappeared by his side, grinning. “Dinner?” he asked.


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Doctor Watson_ ,” Angelo cried as soon as he spied John outside of his restaurant. “How wonderful to see you!” He had John by the elbow and was dragging him inside before John could utter a word of protest or even a simple _hello_. “Come, come. Of course your favorite table is available.”

_Sherlock’s_ favorite table, John thought. But he supposed that made it _his_ favorite table now as well, as if Sherlock had bequeathed it to him in the will he never drafted.

John had not meant to actually go inside Angelo’s. He didn’t feel like eating, didn’t feel like seeing the inside of a restaurant that reminded him exclusively of Sherlock, and certainly didn’t feel like managing Angelo in all his well-intentioned exuberance. He hadn’t been back to the place since Sherlock’s death and fully intended to keep it that way. However, as Angelo practically pushed John into the table by the window, John realized that he seemed to have very little say in the matter.

“I’ll bring you some wine,” Angelo said. “And a candle—for old times’ sake. Everything, of course, is on the house for Sherlock’s friend.”

John didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before Angelo was gone.

John sighed, running his hands over his face. The restaurant was mostly as he remembered it, minus a few touch-ups here and there and some updated artwork on the walls. There was a sweet swell of classical music that Angelo always piped in over the speakers, a soft violin that could barely be heard over the din of patrons enjoying their meals. What John hadn’t been expecting was the _smell_ , that warm scent of garlic and salt that he’d never even realized reminded him of Sherlock until he was practically being punched in the gut with it. He felt a burning start up deep inside him and had a strong urge to flee the place, knocking chairs aside as he darted into the street. He could apologize to Angelo later, likely over a phone call.

Before he could do anything, Angelo was back, somehow managing to balance a candle, a glass of wine, and a plate of pasta in his arms. He set everything in front of John with a flourish.

“We just so happened to have an extra portion of linguine ready in the kitchen,” he said. “Nice and fresh, don’t you worry. I remember you liked this dish, always ordered it when the two of you dined here.”

“Ah,” John said. It _had_ been his favorite dish at this place. He was a bit bewildered that Angelo remembered.

“I was so sad to hear of Mister Sherlock,” Angelo said, his smile fading into a sincere look of sympathy that did nothing helpful to the burning feeling in John’s chest. “It broke my heart when I learned the news. My sincerest condolences to you.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Um. Thanks.” He never knew what to say in situations like this. Condolences never made him feel any better and always left him with an aching feeling that took hours to shake. Still, the proper thing to say was _thank you_ , even if all John wanted to say was _piss off._

“I always thought the two of you were a lovely couple,” Angelo said.

“We—” John started. It was an old reflex, to deny it. _We weren’t. We weren’t a couple. Not ever. Not even for a moment._ _Not even at the end, when it was like we knew each other better than anything, had been together for decades instead of twenty-two months._

“Just lovely,” Angelo said.

“Yeah,” John said. “Thanks.”

Angelo smiled and walked away and John allowed himself the lie, the little moment of pretending as if he lived in this version of reality, a version where he and Sherlock might’ve been something more to each other, something more than just flatmates, something more like honesty. John swallowed down half his wine and wished that little moments could last longer.

“I told you you’d like the linguine,” Sherlock said.

John set his half-empty wine glass on the table with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “You did,” he said. It was one of the early times the two of them dined here after some case or another, and Sherlock hadn’t so much recommended the dish as practically ordered it for him.

“You were hemming and hawing over nearly half of the menu, taking an exceedingly long time to decide, even by your standards, and I told you to just order the linguine because it would be the dish you’d like best.”

“I remember,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes darted down to the linguine, then back up to John. “And?”

John sighed. He twirled his fork around the pasta and popped it into his mouth. “It’s delicious, alright?” he said, mouth full. “Still delicious. Still my favorite.” He swallowed with great effort. “And you’re still dead.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at John. “Don’t let that spoil your meal.”

They had been here a dozen or so times before Sherlock died, enough for John to notice the different artwork on the walls and to recognize that Angelo printed the menu on different paper now. Enough for Angelo to remember the dish John always ordered, apparently. Still, it was that first time that John always remembered, the time they came here to watch for a serial killer, just after John knew that he would follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth and very nearly did.

_People don’t have arch enemies. There are no arch enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen._

_What do people have, then? In their real lives?_

Sherlock had looked bloody breathtaking that night, John remembered. With the lights from the street flickering on his pale skin, his sharp eyes scanning the street, taking in the whole of the night around them, he looked like something that ought to be in the Louvre, some masterpiece for which there could never be a convincing replica, something cordoned off behind thick ropes and surly security guards. Something not to be touched. John, however, had felt his fingers itch just looking at him.

“I was, you know,” John said, taking another generous sip of his wine.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Making a pass at you,” John said, gesturing with his glass to where Sherlock had sat that night, where he currently was not sitting now. “That night. While we were looking for the serial killer. I _was_ making a pass at you.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards in an amused smile.

“I was doing a shit job of it,” John said. “Probably one of my worst attempts at a come-on in the whole of my life. But. I was.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“And you,” John said, suddenly finding his plate of linguine very interesting, “shot me down.”

“We’d only just met,” Sherlock said. “It’s best to take these sorts of things slow, is it not?”

“We were moving into a flat together,” John said. “After only knowing each other five minutes. Surely _taking it slow_ had gone a bit out the window?”

“Perhaps I was playing hard to get,” Sherlock said.

“No you weren’t,” John said.

Sherlock shrugged. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” John said. His fork slapped dumbly against his pasta. “And now I never will.” What little appetite he had was fading rapidly. He finished off the last of his wine. “I should have tried harder,” he said. “For you. I should have tried harder.”

“You did give up frightfully quickly,” Sherlock said.

“ _Look_ at you.” John gestured with an open palm, fully aware that there was nothing but empty air in front of him. “You’re _you_ for Christ sake. I didn’t think I had a shot in hell with you to begin with.”

“Come now, John,” Sherlock said. “Surely you think more highly of yourself than _that_.” He paused, and for a moment his eyes flickered down to his hands. “ _I_ certainly did.”

John swallowed and set his fork on his plate, his appetite well and truly gone, not that it had ever fully arrived. He twirled at his empty wine glass, wishing it were full not nearly as much as he wished the seat across from him was. The other patrons of the restaurant chatted happily around him, chewing and chuckling and cheerful, ignoring the nutter who had been talking to an empty chair for the better part of twenty minutes. The music played on through the speakers, the notes of the violin managing to slide their way into John’s heart like a needle through flesh.

“Do you think,” John asked, eyes still on the stem of his wine glass, “if you hadn’t...you know. Do you think you could have ever...for me? Could we have ever,” he gestured between the two of them, “made this work?”

Sherlock’s gaze was intense, the glare of high beams through glass. “What do you think?” he asked.

John could barely look at Sherlock without seeing spots. “I don’t know,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered, something like mischief. “Perhaps someday you will,” he said.

John dropped his head. “Not unless you stop being dead,” he said. “And please. God, _please_ , Sherlock. Stop—”

John was interrupted by a grinning Angelo, sweeping over to the table to collect his plate. “Did you enjoy your meal?” he asked.

“Ah,” John said, wishing that he had eaten a bit more of the linguine as a show of gratitude towards the man. “Yeah. I did. Thanks so—”

“Anything for Sherlock’s special friend,” Angelo said, beaming.

John shot a quick look at the Sherlock who wasn’t really there. _Special_ friend. Sherlock would have had a little smile at that one.

“I’m so happy to see you today, Doctor Watson,” Angelo said. “It’s been too long. Too long.”

“Yeah,” John said. “I know. It’s just—”

“What brought you to my little restaurant today?” Angelo asked. “We must find a way to have it happen more often.”

“Actually,” John said. “It was your flyers. I was down in Brixton, and this kid was out there handing out flyers and…” He stopped, noticing the confused look on Angelo’s face.

“Flyers?” asked Angelo.

“Yeah,” John said. He patted his pockets for the piece of paper before remembering he threw it in a bin before finding a cab. “Kind of brightly-colored flyers. Talking about family-style dining. Authentic Italian cuisine. That sort of thing.”

Angelo’s brow furrowed. “I don’t print _flyers_ ,” he said. “My cooking speaks for itself.”

“Oh,” John said, blinking. “Right. Well. I must have been mistaken then. It must have been some other Italian restaurant, and I just thought of this one.” He hadn’t been mistaken, John knew. The flyer had said _Angelo’s_ in large, scrawling text.

“Well,” Angelo said, brightening once more. “It is always good to see you. Especially after such tragedy.”

“Yeah,” said John, who never needed to be reminded of tragedy.

“You know what might give you some peace in your soul?” Angelo asked. “A nice stroll in the London night. I’ve always found the city to be quite peaceful at night, don’t you?”

“Um,” John looked behind him, out the large window that looked out onto the street. The pedestrian traffic had dimmed somewhat, but the night still looked cold and a bit gloomy.

“And I hear there is to be a lovely meteor shower tonight,” Angelo said. “Good to remember to look up to the heavens from time to time.” He winked and walked away. The classical music played on in the silence Angelo left behind him. It was still soft, but John could just barely make out the tune now.

_How strange, how sweet,_

_to find you still_

_These things are dear to me,_

_they seem to bring you near to me_

“That bloody song is everywhere today,” John said. When he looked up, Sherlock had a little smile on his face, eyebrow tilted upward.

“Care to go for a walk?” he asked.

John sighed and smiled despite himself. The smiles were hurting less and less as the night wore on. “Why not?” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

The chill of the night air had a crispness to it, the kind of cold you can smell. John zipped his coat up to his chin and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching the fog of his breath disappear into the London night. The city glowed in the darkness, the motley lights from the shops and streetlights shining like Christmas, the headlights from taxis flickering as they drove past. There were fewer cars on the street, fewer pedestrians on the pavement, and John figured the whole of it might actually be rather nice.

“ _I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders,_ ” Sherlock said, strolling along at John’s side. “ _From the Dardanelles to the mountains of Peru. But there’s no place like London._ ”

John quirked his head towards Sherlock. “Is that Sweeney Todd?” he asked. “Because that song has a rather different take on the place. _There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit, and it’s filled with people who are filled with shit._ All that.”

But Sherlock only smiled. “That’s exactly what I like about London,” he said. “That great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.” He seemed overjoyed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

John chuckled. “Only you would find that sort of thing wonderful.” But he was smiling painlessly now, walking along the city streets just as if Sherlock were really at his side, gazing upon the city in all its beautiful dilapidation. A puddle reflected the lights from a shop and it looked like a rainbow. A rat, fat and content, nibbled on a bit of a crisp at the edge of an alleyway. A homeless man burrowed underneath a blanket and belted out a song in a classically-trained baritone ( _the scent of smoldering leaves, the wail of steamers...two lovers on the street who walk like dreamers..._ ).

“Up, John,” Sherlock said. “Look _up_.” His head was tilted towards the sky.

John followed Sherlock’s gaze and looked upon the night sky.

The city lights made it difficult to see the stars most of the time. The best you could hope for most often was a glimpse at one or two stars here and there, maybe even the Big Dipper if you were lucky. Eventually, you stop looking up altogether, or at least John had. It was easy, in the city, to go around only looking at your feet. These days, John’s head was perpetually pointed at the pavement, on the lookout for phantom bloodstains. It had been ages since he tipped his head back and took in the sky.

Tonight, the stars seemed to be out in droves, overpowering the polluted glow of the city to shine on, little pinpricks of light in an inky sky. It was the sort of thing that could make a bloke dizzy, the way the sky towered above the tops of the buildings, reminding John that the world, in all its unfairness and defiance, spun on. John sighed and his breath drifted up towards the sky, a slowly dissolving cloud. The stars stared back at him—unblinking, beautiful.

It was the sort of thing Sherlock never paid very much attention to in life.

“I ought to have,” Sherlock said, his eyes on John. “I ought to have paid more attention to beautiful things.”

“You already paid attention to so much,” John said, eyes fixed on the sky. “You were likely tapped out.”

“I might have modified my attention,” Sherlock said, “to incorporate the things that really mattered.”

“I might’ve done the same,” John said. He walked on in silence, Sherlock not really walking alongside him, considering him gently out of the corner of his eye. John didn’t have a particular destination in mind—he simply let his legs carry him. The streets of London, seedy though they were in spots, were comfortable, familiar. They were as much a home to him as any, and certainly felt more like a home than his current flat, small and dark and depressing and inexcusably Sherlock-less. John figured he might as well walk as long as he could stand it. It seemed right, given the day.

“We ran along these streets that night, didn’t we?” John asked. “That night we chased after the cab? We ran along these streets back to Baker Street.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.

“And if not then,” John said, “we walked them a million times after. At all hours of the day or night. Off on some case or another.”

“This cesspool was our stomping grounds,” said Sherlock.

John smiled, and a little flicker of pain nudged at him. He dropped his eyes from the sky. “That was the night you knocked the limp out of me,” he said. “My bloody therapist couldn’t do that in four months, and you did it in one night.”

“You weren’t really listening to your therapist,” Sherlock said, “Sometimes one must be shown, not told.”

“Well,” John said. “You certainly showed me.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a smile, one of the little ones he always tried to will away, and he looked so at home on the street, walking easily in the cold and the damp, wrapped up in the city he loved. It wasn’t fair that London was now forever deprived of him, John thought. There ought to have been some sort of commemoration. A national holiday. A bloody plaque, at least.

John’s chest ached. “I did need you, Sherlock. Back then.” He swallowed. “I still do.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“It’s not just about the limp,” John said. “It’s not just that. It’s...what you did for me, Sherlock. You gave me a purpose. You gave me a home. You gave me…you. More or less.” He shook his head. “I would never, even if you were still around, be able to repay you for all you did.”

“I would never ask you to, John,” Sherlock said, because of course he wouldn’t. That wasn’t his way. However, John thought, it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t have at least tried.

“I was so alone,” John said, the words threatening to break on his tongue. “And I owe you so much.”

“You said that at my grave.”

“I did,” John said. “I meant it.” He turned to Sherlock. “Did you hear me? From wherever you are now? Did you hear my little speech?”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John. “I’m in your head, remember? I hear everything you say.”

“I mean…” John shook his head. “Never mind. I’m going mad, is all.” It certainly wasn’t very hard to make that particular argument at the moment, wandering around the streets of London with no purpose in mind, talking out loud to nobody, and somehow bloody near tears again. If someone spied him and reported him to the police for suspicious activity, John wouldn’t have blamed them.

“You did quite a bit for me as well,” Sherlock said. “I’d never had a friend—not really, that is—before you.”

“That’s not true,” John said. “You had Lestrade and Molly and…”

“I had individuals who were impressed or infatuated with my talents,” Sherlock said. “But I never had anybody who chose to stay around because of _me_. I never had anybody that cared. You did.”

“Yeah,” John said. “I certainly did. I do.”

Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes glittering in the rainbow lights of the city. “You meant a great deal to me, John.”

John laughed, and the sound hurt his throat. “Thing is,” he said, “I’m not exactly sure that’s true.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, a hurt expression crossing over his face. John couldn’t believe he felt a pang of guilt for insulting a figment of his own imagination.

He paused, turning towards Sherlock. “You left me,” he said. “You threw yourself off a building and splattered yourself on the pavement and left me alone, left me to defend your honor to the tabloids, left me to carry on without you, left me to wander the bloody streets on the anniversary of the day we met. Alone. Talking to myself like some bloody lunatic. Is that the sort of thing you do to someone who means something to you?”

Sherlock, for once, said nothing. John supposed that getting the last word in with Sherlock would feel much more satisfying if the whole thing wasn’t happening in his own bloody head.

John shook his head, blinking back the stinging in his eyes. “I loved you, did you know that?”

Sherlock’s expression was calm, unreadable. John hated that he couldn’t even surprise his imagined version of Sherlock, couldn’t get him riled even just a little.

“I loved you,” John repeated. “I love you. I still bloody love you. And it feels like it’s eating me alive, bit by bit. It’s been over a year since you died, and I don’t think it’s going to get any better.” He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, feeling well and truly mad at the moment. A woman passed by and considered him oddly, but he did his best to ignore her, turning and continuing down the street.

Sherlock, of course, followed. “You should have told me, John,” he said.

“Yeah,” John said. “Well. I bloody know that _now_ , don’t I?”

“I might have loved you too,” Sherlock said.

John was fairly certain that the inside of his throat was bleeding. The cold air of the night burned against the wet of his face. “No you didn’t,” he said.

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John said, dragging a sleeve across his face. “And now I never will. _God,_ Sherlock _._ ” He risked a look at Sherlock again, who seemed so real that his very image was the definition of unfairness. “How I wish you were alive.”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to twinkle. “Maybe I am,” he said. It was the worst sort of thing to say, and John hated that it came from his own head.

“Don’t,” John said. “You’ll have me sounding like Anderson soon.”

“Maybe Anderson isn’t wrong about everything.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “As much as it pains me to admit.”

“How do you mean?” John asked.

Sherlock’s eyebrow raised. “Tonight has been a bit strange, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John said. “It certainly has.”

“A large number of coincidences, it would seem.”

“True,” John said.

“And you remember what I always used to say about coincidences, don’t you John?” A little grin gleamed across Sherlock’s face.

John sighed. “The universe is rarely so lazy,” he said. “Well. The universe is certainly not being lazy tonight.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. “It would almost appear as if the universe conspired to take you out on a date. A proper one.”

John stopped in the middle of the pavement. He stared up at Sherlock, his brain reeling ever so slightly. Sherlock stared back with a placid expression, as if patiently waiting for John’s little mind to catch up.

John realized he could still hear the homeless man with the lovely voice, crooning out the lyrics to an old song ( _these foolish things..._ ).

“That song…” John muttered.

John barely had time for his brain to connect any lines before a young man was upon him. The man wore a money-pouch and held a crumpled map in his hands. He looked cheerful, happy to be lost.

“Excuse me,” the man said. “I was looking for Speedy’s Cafe. Can’t seem to find it on the map. Could you direct me there?” He spoke in a perfect British accent.

It took John a moment to remember how to speak. “That’s…” He felt as if his legs were growing wobbly. “That’s on Baker Street.”

“Yes,” the man said, folding up the map on which Baker Street was almost certainly listed. “Yes, I believe it is. Do you know how to get there from here?”

“You know the way back to Baker Street from any point in London,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. “It’s like you’ve got a compass inside you.”

“Um, yeah,” John said, doing his best to ignore Sherlock. “Head back down this road,” he pointed back the way the man came, “until you get to Oxford Street. Turn right. Follow Oxford for just about a kilometer, until you get to Orchard. Turn right again. You’ll come up on Baker Street in just under a kilometer. Speedy’s has a burgundy awning. Can’t miss it.”

The man beamed. “Thank you,” he said. “Have a lovely evening.” Then he walked past John, continuing down the street in the same direction he had been heading.

John watched him leave. “He didn’t…” John narrowed his eyes. “He’s not going towards Baker Street.”

“He certainly isn’t,” Sherlock said.

“And…” John checked his watch. “Speedy’s is closed now. I’m nearly certain.”

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, a little wave of excitement. “It’s almost as if the point of him wasn’t to get the directions at all,” he said, “but rather to remind you of something.”

John blinked. He blinked again.

“Which would mean…” Sherlock pressed.

But John didn’t hear him. He was already running down the street.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time John reached Baker Street, he was a sweaty mess and it seemed as if his whole body was thrumming along with his heartbeat. His legs felt numb and absent; he wasn’t particularly sure how they had carried him this far at all. His lungs burned with the night air. The stars were all but forgotten.

_You’re being an idiot,_ a voice in his head said. _He’s dead, you know._

John only ran faster.

He still had his key to 221b—of _course_ he did—and pulled it from his pocket with shaking fingers. He considered what sorts of deductions Sherlock might make from the number of attempts he needed to get the key into the lock, scratching metal against metal. He dismissed the thought and shoved the door open.

The landing was dark. The place was still. There was no light on in Mrs. Hudson’s flat—she must be out for the evening. Just as well, John figured. He did not feel like explaining his sudden appearance in the flat at the moment, on the off-chance that she took his ramblings about flyers and tourists and a bloody _song_ that kept playing as final proof that he had truly gone mad.

John took the steps two at a time.

He was well out of breath by the time he made it to the flat, and not from the exhaustion of running. The thought was a screaming noise in his head—no words, just a blinding hope—but he wouldn’t let himself think it. Not yet.

The day Sherlock died, the day he jumped, as John stumbled across the pavement to get to him, he told himself Sherlock was still alive. All the way across the pavement, even as the gasping crowd closed in, even as he got closer to Sherlock’s body and saw the blood and the carnage, he told himself Sherlock was still alive. Even as he pushed through the bodies of the onlookers, moaning words he didn’t hear, and reached for Sherlock’s pale, bloodied wrist, he told himself Sherlock was still alive. Even with all his medical training, with his knowledge that a fall from a six-story building wasn’t exactly survivable, with the sound of Sherlock’s body crunching onto the pavement echoing in his head, he told himself that Sherlock was still alive, that he had somehow managed to argue against gravity and win, that he kept his body intact and his heart still beating. Because Sherlock had to be. He _had_ to still be alive. And then when he wasn’t, when there was no pulse, when there was no life remaining behind those piercing eyes, John had broken, and even after a year he hadn’t quite repaired.

If he broke again, John was fairly certain he would be broken for good.

So he didn’t think it, that screaming, exuberant thought that was pounding through his brain. He didn’t think it as he burst into the sitting room of the flat, turning on lights that crackled from disuse and coughing on the dust that drifted through the air. He didn’t think it as he tore through the kitchen, breathing in the scent of stale chemicals and abandoned fingers not binned before they started to rot. He certainly didn’t think it as he pushed down the hallway and into Sherlock’s bedroom. He didn’t breathe, let alone think. He couldn’t breathe. He was so close to breaking, held together only by the gossamer strings of the thought he was not thinking.

The sitting room was empty. The kitchen was empty. Sherlock’s bedroom was empty. John wasn’t thinking it. He _wasn’t_.

He carried on not thinking it as he darted up the stairs to the room that used to be his, empty now, dark and cold. In this sad little room, it was easier not to think it—Sherlock never came up here; it was always John who came to Sherlock. Always, right from the start. John’s room was perpetually dull and a bit drafty—the light and warmth and energy had been downstairs with Sherlock, and he took it all with him when he left. John glanced around the bare little room for just a moment before shutting the door and turning back. He walked down the stairs to the sitting room, slowly slowly slowly. Not thinking.

There was not another living thing in the flat.

It looked exactly as he remembered it, the flat. Mrs. Hudson said at Sherlock’s funeral that she didn’t know what to do with any of his belongings and apparently she had never quite gotten around to figuring it out. It was all still there—the books and the papers and the skull and his bloody violin and the _chairs,_ the two chairs where John and Sherlock would sit for hours, lazily wiling away the evenings with each other as if they had the rest of their lives to do nothing but that. There was a thick layer of dust on everything, cobwebs hanging in the corners and off the edges of books, and the smell of the place—the smell that John swore he could remember in his dreams sometimes—had gone a bit musty. The room was a museum, an archive of the dead. Schoolchildren could come by on tours and the guide would tell them that two men used to have the very best, the very maddest of times in these rooms and the children would giggle and point and never, _never_ properly understand.

John’s legs carried him over to his chair as if by instinct and he felt himself fall backwards onto the worn cushions. The chair still fit him—the Union Jack pillow still molded to the shape of his back. It felt as if it had been waiting for him, hadn’t let anybody else sit in his absence. Across from him, Sherlock’s chair was empty, the indentation of his body still present in the worn leather, the invisible shape of a man who would never again perch himself dramatically upon its surface, crossing his legs with flair and crooning brilliance at a breakneck pace. John could feel his chest caving in.

He was breaking.

He bit at his lip. He dug his fingernails into the armrests of his chair. He sucked in a breath and tensed his muscles and did all he could to hold himself together but the whole of it did nothing. He was breaking, of _course_ he was breaking, because of _course_ he had been thinking it all along—wishing it, hoping for it, bloody praying to anybody out there who could have possibly listened. He was mad to convince himself that it wasn’t the one thing he wanted more than anything in this world, that he wouldn’t have traded just about anything for it to have been true. He was mad to think that, after all this time, he wasn’t still waiting for a miracle.

Miracles, of course, weren’t real.

John stared at Sherlock’s empty chair and watched it grow blurry before his eyes. Everything inside of John was burning, stinging, sliced open, about to overflow. He could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“I just want you to not be dead,” he said, more breath than words, to the space where Sherlock wasn’t, “so fucking badly.”

The chair said nothing in response. The flat was empty. Sherlock was dead, had been for over a year now. Not even the imaginary Sherlock that John had spent the better part of the day talking to could be arsed to show up at the moment. John carried on talking anyway.

“Is it really too much to ask, Sherlock?” John’s throat was raw and closing in on itself. “That you stop being dead? If anybody could do it, you could.”

Sherlock, of course, wasn’t there to answer. He was dead. He had pitched himself off a building and broken himself on the pavement and John had seen him, had seen him fall and seen him dead and seen him buried.

“Please,” John said. “For me.” And then he wasn’t able to speak anymore.

John had cried plenty of times since Sherlock died. He cried at Sherlock’s gravesite and he cried when he moved out of Baker Street and into his bloody awful flat and he cried the first time he saw Lestrade talking on the telly about some case or other that Sherlock would have solved in three seconds and he once even cried after some bloke passed him on the street who wore the same aftershave as Sherlock but he never, not once, cried like this—like his body was trying to turn itself inside out at the middle. He collapsed in on himself, holding his shaking face in his shaking hands, and damn near wailed, hating Sherlock for being dead and hating himself for being an idiot and hating the very concept of miracles for causing him to be so stupid as to think he had reason to hope.

Days could have passed for all John knew. It seemed as if he might never stop crying.

_Look up, John._

The voice came from somewhere in the back of John’s mind, whispered and unreal, the faintest memory of what Sherlock’s voice sounded like.

“Go away,” John whimpered. “If you’re going to carry on being dead, you need to go away.”

_John. Look up._

John shook his head, still cradled in his hands. He sniffed and shook. If he opened his eyes, if he looked up, he would still be at Baker Street, staring at all the spaces Sherlock would never again fill. He wasn’t sure he was physically capable of that.

_Look up._

But of course, because John always listened to Sherlock, he looked up. He blinked, his raw eyes adjusting once more to the light. The room was as it had been—dusty and dingy and covered in cobwebs, appallingly devoid of Sherlock.

“I’m looking,” John said to no one.

_Up_.

John sighed and tilted his head up, scanning the ceiling, the tops of the bookshelves.

It took a moment for him to see it.

The bookshelves were always a bit of a cluttered mess, books and papers and bric-a-brac poking out at odd angles, neither Sherlock nor John ever caring enough to straighten or organize or clean. It was hard to tell if something was out of place because it seemed as if everything was out of place. In the end, it was the cobwebs that tipped John off. The cobwebs were everywhere on the bookshelf, dangling from the edges of books and in between the thick wooden shelves, except for one spot where they appeared to have been swiftly broken. Just past that spot was a piece of paper—a garish pink—resting gently atop a few thick medical texts, too crisp and bright to have been sitting there for over a year.

John narrowed his eyes. He stood and moved to the bookshelf, lifting himself onto his toes to reach the piece of paper. He stared at the brightly-colored paper, half-expecting there to be an advertisement for _authentic Italian cuisine_ , printed in large, scrawling text. There wasn’t. Instead, someone had scribbled something on it—a note, written in flowing black ink.

_Happy three years, John_

_So sorry I can’t be with you_

John stopped breathing all over again. He stared at the note, unblinking. The letters blurred together. They lost meaning, but he didn’t need to be able to read to begin to understand what they meant.

The imagined Sherlock, the one who had followed him about the city all day, reappeared at his side. “Do you see it, John?”

“It’s…” John’s voice was thick, rough. His tongue was dumb and heavy. “It’s your handwriting.”

“Do you see it?”

“You couldn’t have…” John’s brain was freezing, stuttering. “Could you have done this before you died? How could you have known…”

“Do you _see_ it, John?” Sherlock seemed excited, bouncing back on his heels again. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself tonight, while John feared that he was on the precipice of some sort of breakdown.

“It’s your handwriting,” John said again. The paper shook in his hands. It was on the verge of fluttering to the ground, his fingers useless. “It’s your handwriting. It is. But how did you…?”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “But do you _see_ it?”

“I _see_ it,” John said. “It’s a note. For me. You left me a note. It was you. It’s your handwriting. It’s…”

“The _ink_ ,” Sherlock said. “The _ink_ , John.”

“The…” John peered at the ink. The note had been written with a thick black pen, the ink shimmering and glossy. Very glossy. John ran a thumb over the ink. It smudged, leaving a stain of black across the page and along John’s finger. He examined his thumb. He blinked. “It’s fresh.”

Sherlock was in front of him, vibrating with energy. “Which means…”

John looked up from the note, not really seeing Sherlock because he wasn’t really there. “It means that you… That whoever left this note…”

He swallowed. Sherlock nodded eagerly.

“They were just here,” John said. His mouth was dry as a bone.

Sherlock grinned. “Which means…”

The note hadn’t even hit the floor before John was at the stairs, practically leaping down the stairwell and hauling himself along on the railing. He didn’t bother to turn any of the lights off behind him. It didn’t matter. He darted through the foyer and burst out onto the street. Whoever left the note, they might still be around. If not them, somebody. Some passer-by, some homeless person, _somebody_ must have seen the culprit enter and exit the flat. Somebody could give John some information, some glimmer of hope.

John whipped his head around. He peered down the street to the left. To the right. He searched for somebody— _any_ body—who might have been around long enough to notice someone coming in or out.

A woman walked down the street, immersed in her mobile. John jogged up to her, barely noticing how she startled as he popped up at her side in a flurry of words.

“Did you see anybody come out of that building?” John gestured wildly back at 221b. “Or enter? Did you see anybody come or go?”

“No,” the woman said. She looked properly terrified by John’s sudden appearance, which John figured she was well within her rights to be. She scurried away just as John ran over to a man waiting to cross the street.

The man had headphones on and John practically ripped them off his head. “Did you see anybody come out of that building?” he demanded. “Just now? 221b?”

“ _You_ , mate,” the man said brusquely, and crossed the street without looking.

John cursed, darting back towards the flat. It was properly late now, and the streets were fairly deserted. There had to be _somebody_ who knew something, John thought. Some last remaining member of Sherlock’s homeless network who would know how to keep good surveillance, who could give John the answers he needed. John was ready to give them the entire contents of his wallet. He would take them to the bloody cash machine if needed.

Sherlock materialized at his side. He wasn’t wearing his Belstaff anymore and seemed supremely underdressed for the weather. He didn’t seem to mind. “Look up, John.”

John was pacing a bit, tearing down one side of the street before abruptly turning on his heels and circling back. He hardly noticed his own fantastical imaginings anymore. “What?”

“Look _up_.”

John stopped just in front of the flat and looked up. He scanned the tops of the buildings that lined the road. He hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was looking for, but looking up seemed to have been worth his while thus far tonight.

He heard it first.

It was faint, wavering notes carried off by the wind and the night air, but it was distinct. A violin, somewhere far away, singing out the notes that had been circling John’s mind for the whole of the day.

_A tinkling piano in the next apartment_

_Those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant_

_A fair ground's painted swings_

_These foolish things_

_remind me of you_

And there—standing atop the roof of the building that stood directly opposite 221b, wavering and faint in the moonlight—was a silhouette. The silhouette moved in time with the notes of the music—undulating, rhythmic. Its arm was crooked upwards, holding something beneath its chin. The flash of violin strings glinted in the faint light.

John felt as though he might’ve been the brightest thing glowing in all of London at the moment. He outshone the bloody stars.

John dashed into the street, not even looking out for oncoming cars. He held a distracted hand up at some disgruntled taxis who barely managed to avoid hitting him. He didn’t care. He raced across the street, eyes never leaving the roof of the building and the figure standing atop it.

He reached the pavement on the other side of the street, the whining horns of the traffic not even registering in his ears. He craned his neck back, looking at the building. The buildings across t from 221b were tall and prim, white-painted brick standing out against the streets, and abandoned. Nobody, so far as John knew, lived in the flats above. No businesses ever made their homes in the shops at the street level. There was no way to get inside, no flight of stairs to get onto the roof.

Luckily, Sherlock once taught John how to climb fire escapes.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time John heaved himself onto the roof, panting and aching but still glowing, the music had stopped. The night was silent; even the rush of cars seemed to fade away. John pushed himself over the ledge and rolled onto his back on the rough tile of the roof, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. The stars hovered above him in greeting. It was nice to see them again, so close and loud. John pushed himself to his feet.

The roof was dark, its edges shrouded in shadow. John blinked a bit, trying to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had a few spots swimming in his vision from his climb up the fire escape and was still not breathing properly. He couldn’t see the silhouette anywhere.

“Hello?” John called out. He stepped forward on shaking legs, doing his best to peer into the darkness at the other side of the roof, the areas obscured by chimneys and turbines and the entrance to the stairway that led back into the building. He couldn’t linger up here too long, he knew. Something about spying a man shimmying his way up a fire escape onto the roof of an abandoned building was likely to have more than a few neighbors phoning the police, and John didn’t want to be hauled away in handcuffs until he saw whoever was up here.

“ _Hello_?” John called out again, and only the wind answered him, a sturdy puff of air that rustled the collar of his jacket and swept his hair to the side. He took another step forward, scanning the roof. The whole of it seemed still, empty. Whoever had been up here must have left while John was scaling the building, darting off onto another building or down the stairwell, disappearing into the night. They could be long gone by now, John thought, hiding away in some dark corner where John could never find them.

John could feel his light start to grow dim. That burning feeling was back, although it was starting to be replaced with an exhaustion so heavy that John considered simply lying down on the roof and waiting for the police to come arrest him. A night in jail somehow seemed less depressing than going back to his little flat, alone.

He was about to do just that when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

It was a tall man, lean and confident. He had a violin case in one hand, which he set delicately at his feet. He had a mess of unruly curls atop his head. His long coat billowed about him, pushed open by the wind, a well-worn vest with the words _waiting for a miracle_ just barely visible underneath. The man’s clear eyes glittered in the moonlight and John felt as if all the blood unceremoniously rushed from his body. He was reasonably certain he was about to faint.

“Jesus Christ,” John breathed.

“Not quite,” said Sherlock.

John took a step forward on legs that were moments away from failing him. His mouth had fallen open. He wasn’t breathing again. There was a chance his heart had stopped, but he couldn’t be arsed to check on it. He opened his mouth, shut it again. He couldn’t speak.

Sherlock smiled, that little twitch of a smile he always tried to hide. He seemed amused by the situation. “Hello, John,” he said.

John shook his head. He blinked. He shook his head again. “No,” he said, the only word he was able to force from his stuttering mouth.

The smile flitted across Sherlock’s face again. “You clearly need a moment,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“You’re—” The spots were back, and they were dancing.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re not—” John’s whole body was numb.

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

John shot a hand out and grabbed at Sherlock, touched at his arm, grasped his shoulder. He sunk his fingers into the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat and felt the warm flesh beneath, skin and muscle and bone and _life._ Life. John was breathing again, and excessively so. “You’re real,” he said.

“Last I checked,” Sherlock said.

And John’s legs _did_ buckle then, his knees going wobbly and sending him toppling over onto himself. Sherlock caught him, strong hands grasping onto his shoulders, holding him upright. Sherlock’s piercing eyes were on him, sharp and intelligent and focused and _alive._ He was _alive._

John had his hands wherever he could reach on Sherlock. Along his arms, down his hands, across his chest, over his face. He needed to feel the whole of Sherlock’s body, he needed proof of life, he needed to lay his hands on a miracle before he would well and truly believe in those sorts of things. He was gasping, blubbering, staring. It wasn’t particularly becoming of a grown man. He didn’t care.

“Sherlock,” he said. His hand rested on Sherlock’s face, his thumb tracing the outline of Sherlock’s jaw, his lips, his bloody cheekbones.

Sherlock caught John’s hand in his. He held it where it was, warm and flush against his cheek. He smiled, and John could feel it in the palm of his hand.

“You…” a cluster of words flew through John’s brain and left his mouth in no particular order. “You… Tonight. All of this? And… How? I saw you. You were… And Moriarty…”

Sherlock squeezed at John’s hand. “Articulate as always, John.”

“I…” John swallowed, regrouped. Tried to sort himself. A little voice was screaming in his head, and it sounded suspiciously like his own. “Tonight?” he asked. “That was…you? The song? The…” he shook his head, “everything?”

Sherlock nodded. “You always appreciated a touch of romanticism,” he said.

“And you didn’t…” John grabbed at Sherlock’s waist, arguably tighter than was strictly necessary. Sherlock was warm, _god_ he was warm, all of his blood inside his body where it ought to be. “At Barts. When you fell… You didn’t…” It was an obvious question, but John felt he could never get enough confirmation of the fact that Sherlock was standing in front of him.

“Clearly not,” Sherlock said. He was still smiling and John wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

“How?” John asked. “And why? Why did you… Where have you been?”

Sherlock shook his head. His fingers stroked along John’s hand. “A story for another day,” he said. “It’s long, the story, and we don’t have the time.” His smile dipped into sadness at the edges. “I can only stay for a moment, John.”

John shook his head. “No,” he said. “Stay. You’re here. You’re… You have to stay.”

Sherlock’s smile faded further. He shook his head against John’s hand. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s not safe. Not yet. I shouldn’t even be here right now.”

“Why _are_ you here?” John asked. “Why now?” _Why not sooner?_ John thought. _Why not a year sooner?_

Sherlock’s hand was warm against John’s. He still had a hand around John’s shoulder, but he seemed to be holding him close rather than holding him up. “I wanted to see you,” he said. His eyes flickered to the ground, sheepish. “Today.”

John smiled, and nothing hurt. “I wanted to see you today too,” he said.

“How was everything?” Sherlock asked. “Today, that is?”

John laughed, and he could barely believe the sound came from his mouth. “Good,” he said. “Good, I suppose.” He considered. “A bit more crying than I would have liked. But good.”

Sherlock smiled again, not hiding anything anymore. He squeezed at John’s hand. “Soon, John,” he said. “This will all be over. I’m coming home. I promise.”

“Let me help,” John said. His fingers were tight against Sherlock’s side, along his cheek. Whenever _soon_ was, it would most certainly not be soon enough. He needed Sherlock immediately, in this moment. Preferably forever. Whatever sort of dangerous thing Sherlock was doing, however _not safe_ the situation was, John didn’t care. He would suffer through all of it, if it meant Sherlock was there. John felt as though he might cry again, and he had no earthly idea why. “Whatever you’re up to, I can help. What do you need?” Sherlock was so close and John could smell him, the smell of his shampoo and aftershave and the wool of his coat and all the smells that caused John to choke on his sadness over the past year.

“Just this,” Sherlock said. His eyes spanned the whole of John’s face, the way he used to take in all he could about a piece of evidence before Lestrade said it had to go back to Scotland Yard to be filed away. It wasn’t all John needed in the moment—not by far—but _Christ_ it was enough. It was more than John could have hoped for.

Sherlock’s smile faded. “I have to go,” he said.

John shook his head. “Stay,” he said. “Please stay. Please…” But even as he spoke the words, he knew they would do nothing. He had already received one miracle tonight, and that was very likely his limit.

“I can’t,” Sherlock said, and he was already leaving. His hand slipped from John’s and his arm left John’s shoulder and he was pulling away, ready to retreat back into the night.

John didn’t think. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket and brought their mouths together.

It was clumsy and a bit sloppy but John couldn’t care because he had Sherlock’s lips pressed against his. Sherlock stepped into him and took his face in his hands and moved his mouth against John’s and it was sweet and urgent and perfect— _god_ it was perfect. John made some noise against Sherlock that he didn’t recognize and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and gripped at his coat so tightly he might have left finger-indentations in the fabric.

When they separated, the both of them were breathing rather heavily. Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s. Their noses nudged together. John could have bloody well flown off the roof.

“I should have done that three years ago,” John said.

Sherlock still had John’s face in his hands. He seemed to be collecting data, cataloguing the feel of John’s skin against his fingers. “Yes, you should have,” he said, and then his lips were on John’s once more.

And _Christ_ he should have. If this was what kissing Sherlock was like, John should have kissed him the moment he first saw him, there in that cluttered lab at Barts, right in front of Mike bloody Stamford. He should have kissed him every moment of every day for the whole of the twenty-two months they shared. He absolutely, _absolutely_ , should never have stopped kissing him. From the feel of it, Sherlock was of a similar opinion. He gripped John’s face in his hands and worked his mouth open and didn’t seem keen on letting him go anytime soon.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. His breath was in Sherlock’s mouth. His hands were anywhere on Sherlock he could reach. The two were so close he could see each speck inside Sherlock’s eyes. “Sherlock. I…”

Sherlock kissed him softly, shushing him with his lips. “I know,” he said.

“So much,” John said. “I love you so much.”

Sherlock’s mouth was warm on his. “I know,” he said.

John smiled against Sherlock’s lips. “Of course you know.” He pulled back slightly because he needed to know too. He needed to ask. He looked up into Sherlock’s face. “And. Do you..?”

Sherlock ran his fingers around the ridges of John’s eye sockets, down the swell and dips of his cheeks, along his jaw. His eyes were on John’s, and they were lovelier than the whole of the night sky. “Of course I do,” Sherlock said. “Always, John. I’ve loved you, always.”

“God,” John breathed. He fell forward into Sherlock again, collapsing against him. His lips were against Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s arms were around him and John could have stayed there forever if necessary. There was absolutely nowhere on the whole of this planet he would rather be for the remainder of his days than atop this roof, provided that Sherlock was pressed against him. Sherlock was strong and sturdy and alive and _here_ and John couldn’t have imagined a better miracle than that.

He stepped back, forcing himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“You have to leave,” John said, and he hated the words.

Sherlock nodded.

“But you’re coming back.” It wasn’t a question. It could never be a question anymore.

Sherlock nodded again. “Soon,” he said. “I promise.”

“Please,” John said. “Please hurry.”

“I will.” Sherlock kissed him once more, a gentle, slow press of lips to lips, a goodbye that was no longer meant to be permanent. “Happy anniversary, John.”

John smiled. “Happy anniversary, Sherlock.”

And then Sherlock was gone, lifting his violin case from the ground and disappearing again into the shadows with one last look behind him. He vanished down the stairway into the empty building below, returning to whatever dark corner of the city or the country or the globe he inhabited during the year he had been dead. He was gone once more, but he would be back. He had promised.

John watched him leave, staring into the shadows of the building long after he was certain that only darkness remained. He was crying again, of course, but there was something different to his tears—a lightness that felt very much like hope. He was smiling, grinning like a madman, and he was reasonably certain that he would never feel pain again. He sank to the ground, crossing his legs and allowing himself to settle against the rough tile of the roof. He had absolutely nowhere to be except right where he was, on a roof just across the street from 221b Baker Street, in this wonderful cesspool of a city, waiting for his love to return. He tilted his head to the sky. The stars were beautiful tonight.

And that’s how John spent the remainder of January twenty-ninth, 2013—sitting peacefully on the roof, ignoring the cold and the spin of the city around him, looking up to the heavens with a bewildered smile on his lips and the faint notes of an old song tinkling through his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading my little Johnlock anniversary fic! Your sweet comments and anguished screams made my little writer's heart so happy!
> 
> And if any of you are looking for some mood music, [here is some Ella Fitzgerald for you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJZOUXtDCn0) :)
> 
> Hearts,
> 
> Arwa
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr!](https://arwamachine.tumblr.com/)   
>  [I also have a Twitter, despite having literally no idea how to Twitter.](https://twitter.com/ArwaMachine)


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